


hiraeth

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Family, Gen, Wish Fulfillment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 03:11:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9529241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: hiraeth:a deep longing for home.("Sometimes," she whispered, "I feel like we never even left.")Repost.





	

**Author's Note:**

> _This was originally posted on 2015-4-14._ Warning: it's pure wish fulfillment.

  


* * *

 

 

 

When she dreams now, she dreams of wolves. She dreams of the long-toothed beasts running like ghosts through fallen forests, untracable except for the whisper of leaves tread underneath fleet-footed paws.  Wild, too, terrible in the surety of their movements and the tangles of fur that glinted quickly in every flash of moonlight: brown-gold-white-gray-black, snarls of writhing coats that shook off the arrows like rain. But Sansa was not afraid. She was one of them.

Eyes glinted like yellow moonlight, and long muzzles were thrust upwards into the cold air as they released undulating howls, one after the other, enough to fuel a child’s nightmare. But these were not howls of aggression, nor of anger. They were calls to family, homages to the past. These wolves were not hunting.

They were going home.

 

*

 

He was not who she remembered.

He bore the same long face: the same smoke-grey eyes. His hands, always so steady, remained the same. The black curls, so sweet that she imagined dozens of girls had fallen in love with him by now—the sullen look on his face, not so much an expression of distaste now but a natural mask, were still present. But he was scarred, tired, the shadows of weariness under his eyes bruises, as if he’d lost one fight after another.

She could not believe it was him.

It had been _so long,_ and they’d both come _so far—_ she felt tears spark in her eyes as she watched him move about his men, having not yet noticed her. For a while it was enough, just to watch, to see the way the other men tilted their head in deference, to observe the way his hand rested on his sword belt, to see the wind blow through his sable curls and toss them astray like a ship at sea.

And then she could not take it any longer, and she pushed her way through the crowd with a ferocity she didn’t know she had, ignoring the curses and mutterings thrown her way. And at last she was before him, auburn hair whipping about her throat and shoulders, face as open as a child’s.

For a moment, neither said anything. And then;

“Sansa?”

“Jon.” There was something sticky in her throat, something that stopped her from speaking anything but his name. “ _Jon_.”

“They said you were coming—but so soon—“ He was at as much of a loss as she was, this sibling who she’d never truly known but who she’d always loved regardless, be it that that love was born more of duty than of passion. They had a new chance now. They could fix whatever wounds remained, aching beneath the surface. They could bandage the deep and leave the rest alone.

“Jon,” she said again, her natural poise all but gone now, in front of this brother who she’d once believed to be the only one left. “Jon.” To her shame tears pricked her eyes and spilled hot down her frozen cheeks, and she did not move to wipe them away.

“Sansa,” he said gently, eyes fixed on hers with an unusual softness, “Don’t cry. We’re going home, now.” He paused, as if he had to repeat it for it to be true.

“We’re going home.”

 

*

 

They came upon Winterfell not a fortnight later, accompanied by only twenty other men, on a day where the sunlight offered more cold than warmth. From a distance, it looked like any other ruin, and something stirred inside of Sansa. Purpose.

“It’s not pretty,” Jon said, coming to ride abreast. “Bolton made sure of that.”

“It’s not, but we’ll rebuild,” Sansa said, something swelling inside of her.  Her words were softer as she continued. “I’ve already done it once before.”

She was remembering a dazzling snow-cast morning, hands packing hard snow to recreate her lost home.  She remembered how it had come together as if she were blind and the castle her only memory left. She remembered how it had come crashing down. Something twisted, knife-sharp, in her gut.

She would not allow that to ever happen again.

 

*

 

It was so hard to look at him, this shadow of Robb, but still only half-grown. They stood outside of Winterfell’s gates, Sansa and Jon in perfect silence, their little brother staring at them as if he were breathless. Around him, several grown men stood at guard, but they were not needed. Sansa and Jon would likely both die before they saw a hair on their little brother’s head harmed.

Sansa dismounted her mare with ease and led her slowly towards him, something expanding in her chest like the unfurling of wings, pushing wide her ribcage. She took in a choking breath.

Rickon looked up at her. “Mother?”

It would not do, to cry again—but oh, it was hard not to, as she stood there before her ghostly home, the only one she ever really had, with her little brother who had mistaken her for their lady mother. She swallowed, something swollen in her throat, and shook her head. “No, Rickon. It’s your sister, Sansa. And this is Jon—our br—. Our cousin.”

“Why?” He asked, suddenly, a note of fear in his voice. “Why are you here? You’re not going to leave, are you?”

“No, sweetling,” Sansa said softly, reaching out to touch his cheek. He was not half as wild as she remembered. “We’re going to be a family now.”

“A family?” He spoke the word as if he’d never heard it before.

“Yes,” she said, the wings inside of her ribcage unfurling to their widest, filling her with aching hollow space. “I promise. We’re going to be a family now. All three of us.”

“Arya?” He demanded. “And Bran?”

To this, Sansa had no answer, for either him or for herself.

 

*

 

After they had settled in, Sansa took a solitary walk around the grounds of her ravaged home.

It was as silent as the tombs beneath the castle. Everywhere there was the echo of death: in the ravaged earth, in the trees pulled from the naked ground, in the shattering and the burning of the castle itself.

Sansa stopped beside a pond that pooled beneath a weeping tree. She looked down at her own reflection; she hadn’t seen herself in many weeks. She was surprised at what she saw; she almost looked like _Jon,_ with the hollows in her white cheeks and the bruise-like shadows underneath her eyes. The eyes and the hair were all wrong, of course. She’d always been thought of by so many as a Tully through and through, but she’d also been the wolf girl, the Key to the North, the Stark girl with wings and fangs and four firmly-padded paws.

She had not thought that grief would have made her more beautiful. But she was lovelier than she ever had been, and instinctively she knew why.

She looked like her mother.

Half Stark, born to the snow and the ice and the wind; half Tully, born to the forests and the riverbanks and the streams. But she would have found no peace in Riverrun. This had been her home, all those years ago, and she would have no other.

She left the pond and wandered into the lichyard with heart-wrenching purpose. This was where Lady was buried, she knew, and of course she’d never gotten the chance to say good-bye.

Her direwolf was buried underneath a mound of earth, an engraved stone marking where she lay. Heedless of her skirts for once, Sansa knelt before it, reaching out to touch its smoothness. She was kneeling in mud, but barely noticed. She ran her hands over the little stone, tears rising to her eyes, an age-old ache coming to take the place of her peaceful contemplation.

“I still miss you,” she whispered, though there was no one around to hear. “Sometimes I feel that we never even left.” She paused.

“I see you in my dreams. Are you really there?”

“She’s there,” came a voice, and Sansa whipped her head around, startled. But it was just Jon, standing there with a sad look on his face, surveying his sister—cousin—kneeling there in the mud, crying over her lost direwolf.

“She’s a part of you,” he continued. “And that part of you can’t be killed.”

In that instant she wanted to rise and throw her arms around him, pull him to her as if drowning. It was ridiculous, of course; she’d barely ever touched Jon before, and certainly had never embraced him. But she was so thankful for his words that she found she could barely breathe.

“Thank you,” she said, at last. “I hope you’re right.”

He smiled, sadly. “I know I am.”

And they remained there in silence for many minutes after, each recalling the ghosts which chased them, which would not let them go. And Sansa thought she felt Lady, in the spot just beneath her heart, a warmth and sense of completeness that left her full with bittersweet joy.

“I never stopped loving you,” she whispered, heedless of Jon’s presence as she stroked the engraved stone with long white fingers. “And I never will. I never will.”

 

*

 

The Boltons had rebuilt pieces of Winterfell, albeit shabbily. There was still much work to be done. And yet Sansa found it so hard to do; she rose from her bed early each morning, prepared to face the day and its consequences, to begin the rebuilding of her home, yet she could not do it. There were pieces missing, and until those pieces came together, she could not touch a single stone to rebuild.

At last, she broke the tension one evening as she, Jon, and Rickon sat around a blazing fire. “Where is Bran? Where’s Arya?”

“I don’t know what happened to Bran after the fight up north,” said Jon, “But as you know, Arya fought beside Daenerys Targaryen in the last battle. They say she skinchanged into a dragon.”

It took Sansa’s breath away, that her skinny, mismatched little sister had such power.

“And Bran? I thought he skinchanged into a dragon as well.”

“That’s what the rumors say,” Jon said, leaning forward. “But then he disappeared like smoke.”

Sansa didn’t want the bubble of hope in her chest to burst. “So… they’re still alive?”

Jon said nothing for a moment, just looked into the laughing flames. “I… I would think so.”

“How do we find them?” Sansa’s throat was tightening.

“I don’t think we’ll find them,” said Jon, almost gently. “I think they’d have to find us.”

Later that night, after the rest of the castle was asleep, Sansa took a walk through Winterfell’s dimly-lit halls. It was quiet, and well-guarded, and yet Sansa could not help but look over her shoulder every so often to make sure that she was alone.

She needn’t have worried. The castle was as silent as the earth after a storm, as the inhalation after a sob, and it made her queerly sad.

Here, even the ghosts were dead.

 

*

 

It was the howl that awoke her.

Shaggydog’s howl was deeper, wilder, louder than this one was; it careened back and forth in the wild air. Ghost, of course, never made any sound at all. And there were no dogs at Winterfell at the moment. So where had the howl come from?

Sansa could not have said what implored her to rise from her bed, pull on a dressing gown as quickly as she could, thrust her door open and hurry into the dark hallway. She could not have said why she threw the outer doors open and stepped into the quiet night. She could not have said why she walked into the center of the courtyard and knelt on the cold stone, making crooning noises, beckoning whatever creature had howled to come closer, to reveal itself.

And then she saw it. A giant direwolf on scarred paws, mouth open in a laugh, coat a rippling silver and grey. He was padding towards her, silent as a cat. And something in Sansa’s heart gave out. It simply gave out.

“Summer,” she whispered. “Oh, gods, Summer…”

Because Summer meant… Summer meant…

“Where’s Bran?” She could hear hope rising like a howl in her throat. “Oh, Summer—“

The direwolf approached her and licked her shaking hands, as gentle as any lamb. Sansa instantly threw her arms around his neck, heedless, and Summer, always the gentlest wolf besides Lady, licked her cheek kindly. His breathing was calm, his heart rate steady. Sansa simply knelt there embracing him, and they sat so still, so poised, that it looked almost as if they were a statue.

And that was how Bran and Hodor and Meera found them two minutes later: Sansa kneeling in her bedclothes on the courtyard stones, arms thrown around the giant direwolf, perfectly still. It was beautiful, Meera would say afterwards. It had almost been as if they were connected at the heart. Almost as if they had been the very same creature.

 

*

 

Bran’s tale was a long one, full of magic and powers that Sansa could not hope to understand, but she did understand that life was different for him now, and he wielded a great responsibility. Bran was no longer just her little brother who she told stories to, who she protected from demons by telling him to hide underneath the blankets; he was a powerful entity, the most powerful, perhaps, that was currently known.

She’d always been closer to Bran than any of her other siblings, and this adjustment was a difficult one to make. Yet she didn’t care, did not let this come between them—perhaps she didn’t understand the scope of his power, but she did know that this was still her little brother, her favorite (she’d never tell, of course, but he was), even though now it seemed that it would be him protecting her rather than the other way around.

He looked so much older, she thought. One afternoon they were sitting in the library playing cyvasse and she was examining him as one examines a painting, a work of art. Like the rest of them, he had aged beyond his years. But he was still so very young.

“I suppose we both got what we wanted,” she said brightly. “I was a lady dressed in silks and satins, and I ruled part of Westeros for a time. You were able to go on an adventure, and you didn’t just get to ride a horse, but a _dragon_.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” he replied, a little sadly. Sansa, sensing this (he’d seemed sad ever since he arrived), rapidly changed the subject.

“You can… see things,” she said, in a softer tone. “Have you seen Arya?”

Bran chewed on his lower lip. “No,” he said. “But I know she’s alive.”

“Do you think she’ll come here?”

Bran smiled a tremulous smile. “Where else does she have to go?”

 

*

 

“I was wondering—I know this is forward of me to ask—“ Jon cut himself off sharply.

They were sitting in a little room off of the main hall, a few books on the table between them, and Sansa looked up suddenly from what she’d been reading. “What is it?” She asked. “I don’t mind.”

“Do you plan to… stay here? In this broken place? You’re beautiful and highborn; you could find an equally highborn match.”

Sansa almost laughed out loud at this, but saved Jon the shame. Instead, almost gently, she said: “I’ve been married before, more than once. I have no wish to wed again.”

Jon looked a little resentful, as if he felt foolish for not coming to the same conclusion. “Ah. I see.”

“And what about you?” They’d become much more comfortable in each others’ presences, as of late; Sansa’s time as a bastard had rid her of old prejudices, and her own suffering had gentled her towards the suffering of others. And she was pleased that Jon seemed to feel more warmly towards her, as well. They would never be terribly close—she would never be an Arya to him—but to her pleasure she found that, for the most part, they got along admirably well for two people who’d spent their childhoods feeling cold towards one another. “You’re a Targaryen prince. You could have fought Daenerys for the throne. But you didn’t.”

“I don’t want to be king of Westeros,” said Jon, acid dripping from every word he spoke. “I’ve no wish to have a throne that makes even the king bleed when he sits upon it. Let Daenerys have it.”

“I think she will prove to be a good queen,” Sansa said, in all honesty. “I heard rumors that she was going to have the massive black dragon melt down the Iron Throne and have one built anew, just for her. To prove that she’s not her father’s daughter.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said Jon, with a shake of his head. “I’m staying in the North. I’ll leave her to her knife-sharp throne, and her courtiers, and her dragons. I don’t want any of it.”

“Yet…” Sansa felt as though she was treading on ice. “You’re prepared to take the role of King in the North.”

“The North is in my blood,” Jon replied, with the smallest of shrugs. “Robb wanted it of me, and I’d have done anything for him. So yes, I’ll be King in the North. I’ve heard the men talking about when the ceremony will take place.”

“When?” Sansa asked.

“Soon,” said Jon, and in that instant he looked so very weary. “I don’t know if I was born to wear a crown.”

“They’re heavy,” said Sansa. “Just ask Cersei Lannister. But you’re a good man, Jon. You’ll be a good ruler. The North will rally behind you as they wouldn’t for Bran or for me.”

Jon frowned a little. “We’ll see. We’ll see.”

 

*

 

The day of Jon’s coronation was a beautiful one. The sky was robin’s egg blue, the summer snows melting a little underneath the gentle pale sun. Lords and ladies had come from all over the North to witness the ceremony, and Sansa was suddenly horribly self-conscious of the state of Winterfell—they’d fixed it up a little in the time that they had, but she knew that people were murmuring behind muffled hands about the poor state of the previously proud and lordly castle.

Still, the condition of Winterfell was not what was important. The young man with the curly black hair and the bronze crown destined to be set upon his head were the focal points of the day, not the crumbling skeleton of Winterfell. And Sansa had them set up rows of seats, a thick carpet, a beautiful stage that had used to be an altar. It was all placed outside the gates of Winterfell, and it was as elegant as things could manage to be.

The ceremony was usually not a terribly long one, Sansa had heard before, Northerners having no taste for frivolities. She sat beside Bran and Hodor and Rickon in the first row, watching Jon throughout the spectacle. Yet it seemed to Sansa that this coronation was far longer than those of the past were said to have been, and she even began to fidget a little in her chair.

At last it came time for Jon to be crowned, and the attention of the audience became rapt once more. Jon was staring out at the crowd as the man beside him held the bronze crown in his hands.

“Do you accept this crown and title of King in the North?”

But Jon, to Sansa’s disbelief, didn’t reply.

He was staring out at the audience, or perhaps something beyond it, and looked struck through, lanced by shock. When the question was repeated, he again gave no answer. And it was than that Sansa looked.

A small, graceful young woman was walking through the snows towards the group of them—dark hair down to her mid-back, sharp-faced and slender, daggers at her belt and a bow strapped across her back.

And her left hand on the shoulder of a giant she-wolf.

“ _Arya,”_ Sansa breathed, enveloped by shock. “It can’t—“

“I knew she’d come,” Bran was murmuring. “I knew it—“

And Jon was leaving the old altar, crown forgotten, as the murmur of the audience rose to cries and protests and expressions of confusion. But Jon didn’t care, Sansa knew—Arya was the only thing that mattered to him now, and so she stayed frozen to her seat, knowing that this moment should be theirs alone. Others would just ruin the sanctity of it, stain its inherent purity.

He walked at first, and then jogged—and then broke into a run, and soon they were together, Jon clasping Arya as if he was drowning, saying things that Sansa could not hear as Nymeria howled in bitter triumph. Jon was mussing Arya’s hair—it was so long now, Sansa saw—and there were tears all down her little sister’s face. Arya never cried.

How long they embraced, Sansa didn’t know—it could have been ten seconds or ten minutes. It disrupted the ceremony, of course, but Jon didn’t seem to care. When they finally pulled away, Sansa, Rickon, Hodor, and Bran went to join them in the snow-melting field.

Sansa’s eyes were already blurred with tears when they reached the pair. Arya was the most changed of her siblings; her hair was long and thick now, almost lustrous despite its mousy color, and she had developed a feral prettiness that Sansa thought must have echoed their Aunt Lyanna’s. Now her little sister was staring at them with amazement, eyes swollen and red, and it seemed as if for the first time in her life she didn’t know what to say.

But Sansa couldn’t stand it, and she threw herself at her, clutching her little sister to her chest and feeling the sighing bones in her arms.

Arya stiffened, at first. They had not parted on the best of terms, all those years ago. But the tears were hot on Sansa’s cheeks, and she murmured into her sister’s thick hair: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry for those times I was cruel to you, we were children, just children. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” Arya admitted, a little warily, as if she was trying to make sure that Sansa was telling the truth and not just trying to appease her. “And… even though you bothered me so much, I missed you, Sansa, I thought of you all of the time—“

Sansa let out a loose sob into her little sister’s shoulder. “Did you really skinchange into a dragon?”

Now she felt a smile in her little sister’s voice. “Not just that,” said Arya, with the tiniest of laughs.

“I rode one, too.”

 

*

 

The rest of the ceremony continued joyfully, and afterwards, when the food and drink were brought out and they feasted in the great hall (one of the few places adequately reconstructed), the five remaining Stark chilren sat together at the high table, laughing and telling stories of their tales throughout Westeros—and beyond.

While Sansa had played politician and uniter during the war in the north and the south, Arya had been a wraith, a rogue whose face could change at will. When she showed Sansa how she could take another’s features, Sansa could not help it—she squeaked like a little girl, and Arya burst out laughing.

“You rode a dragon?” Sansa asked her, then. “Truly?”

“Truly,” Arya responded, taking a tiny sip of ale. “I skinchanged it first, until it was used to me—and then it allowed me to ride it. Queen Daenerys said its name was Rhaegal, and that I had the skills needed for it to listen to me. And apparently I did.”

Sansa’s eyes were so wide that they looked like moons. “You always wanted adventure, didn’t you, Arya? And you got it.”

She paused. “Where were you all this time? We’ve been here for so long. We missed you.” There was a trace of accusation in her voice, but she couldn’t help it.

“I was assisting Queen Daenerys,” said Arya, with a little shrug. “Finally I told her that I missed my home and asked if I could leave. She said yes.”

“Do you miss the capital at all?” Sansa felt that she knew the answer to this question alreaedy.

“I miss flying on Rhaegal, above all the domed buildings, and all the golden walls,” Arya said. “But no. I don’t miss it. It was eating away at me—I needed to come home. I’m just…” She took in a little shuddering breath. “I’m just so glad you’re all here.”

Late that night, after the great hall had been emptied and only the Stark children remained, they sat together on a balcony and watched the moon. Ghost, Summer, Nymeria, and Shaggydog curled up at their feet, content in the summer night. Sansa’s breathing was even, her head light. A part of her could not believe that her family was together again. This was not how life was like, she had thought—she had thought that, when presented with a branch in the road, the path chosen would always be the one that brought darkness and pain. But not now, she recognized. Not now. She had her brothers, and her sister, and her heart felt close to overflowing.

 “We’re going to rebuild now,” said Sansa, into the silence. “Winterfell is going to stand tall again.”

Jon gave the smallest smile, shaking his head. “If I were King of the Seven Kingdoms, I’d make you my Hand.”

“We can always playact,” Sansa pointed out, prudently.

“Then you’re my Hand,” said Jon. “And Arya, you’ll be…”

“Mistress of Whisperers,” said Bran, as if it were completely obvious. And it was.

“I want to be in the Kingsguard,” said Rickon immediately, and Bran smiled, a little sadly.

“No,” said Jon, shaking his head. “You’ll all have your own lives. But first we’ll see Winterfell rebuilt in full—and nothing will ever tear us apart again.”

“When the lone wolf dies, the pack survives,” Arya murmured, and at this a feeling of peace fell upon Sansa’s shoulders, light and soothing, a whisper of a promise.

This was their land, and their home, and their people. Never again would fate tear them irrevocably, try to turn brother against sister, sister against brother. They had seen enough in their short lives to fill fifty more. And yet… Sansa was strangely content.

Summer rose and padded over to Sansa, nudging her hand with his nose. Understanding, she began scratching him behind the ears. She thought, now, that she was beginning to understand. She had never considered herself a wolf before, not like her brothers and sister did. But perhaps she was. Perhaps she, too, laid claim to those unbreakable bonds. Perhaps she was one of the pack as well. But just to be sure…

“Am I a wolf?” She asked suddenly, as absurd as the question was. “I know Arya, you always said—“

“Yes,” said Bran, in the way that always had made Sansa adore him so much. “You’re no less a wolf than any of us. Lady is still in you. You just have to listen. That’s all.”

And so for a few moments, they all were quiet. Sansa was remembering Lady, her sweet nature, the way her beautiful coat gleamed under the light, the way she’d curl up at the bottom of Sansa’s bed. And just for an instant, it was Lady she stroked instead of Summer—and in that instant, she knew the wolf blood ran hot and thin in her veins. The past five years had been filled with people trying to strip her of her Stark identity, and they all had failed completely.

She was woman and diplomat, wolf and girl. And she never would let anyone take that from her ever again.

 

*

 

It was three days after the coronation, and Sansa and Arya were playing cyvasse in the half-destroyed library. Arya, who was so clever, so good at thinking on her feet, found the slow strategizing of cyvasse initially frustrating—at least, until Sansa explained it to her. Then her younger sister was suddenly winning game after game, and Sansa could do nothing but watch in astonished disbelief.

After Sansa’s third loss in a row, she sat back on the plush chair and sighed. “I can’t believe that you’re so good at _cyvasse,”_ she complained. “I always thought I was decent enough.”

“You are,” said Arya, fairly. “You just don’t look far enough ahead in the game.”

Sansa gave her a weary look, before rubbing her eyes. It was late, and she was tired; she should leave, now, and go to bed. But Arya was looking over at her with an expectant expression on her face, and she would feel guilty if she ignored it.

“What is it?” She asked.

“I was just thinking… after….after they killed Father, and I fled the city, and you were trapped… What was the most frightening thing that happened to you? I was just thinking, the other day…. About all the horrors we’ve all seen but won’t name. So I wanted to ask you. What was the most frightening thing?”

“You tell me yours first,” said Sansa, and Arya made an irritated noise.

“Why?”

“Just tell me.”

“I can’t choose between three. The first was this torturer, called the Tickler. The second one was in Braavos. The Faceless Men told me that I had to become No One, and on the surface, that didn’t frighten me, really.” Arya paused, licked her lips nervously. “But deep down, it terrified me. It absolutely terrified me.”

She lifted her eyes to Sansa’s. “And the last was when I met the Queen’s dragons. Rhaegal let out a stream of fire right in my face—if the Queen hadn’t pulled me out of the way, I’d be dragon fodder. It’s just... it’s impossible to explain, unless you see one. They’re monsters.”

She shifted in her chair, a little self-consciously. “Now it’s your turn.”

“Mine is easy,” Sansa said softly, eyes going to her hands twisted in her lap. “It was after I fled the capitol, and thought that everyone but Jon was dead. I thought everyone who had ever loved me had been butchered, mutilated, killed. I thought I was alone.” She paused. “I remember thinking about you, once. About all the things I wanted to say to you, and couldn’t.”

“What were they?”

“That’s the funny thing,” Sansa said, with the smallest, saddest smile. “I can’t remember now. Funny how that is, isn’t it?”

Arya reached over and took Sansa’s hand in hers, in a rare show of affection. For a long time they sat there, engulfed in a perfect silence. _The past will never let me go._ Sansa knew this; there was simply nothing to be done about it. _But it’s shadows and reflections in glass, that’s all._

“It’s okay,” said Arya, at last. “We’re home now.”

“Yes,” Sansa said, so softly. “We’re home, and no one will ever take it from us again.”

The two sisters sat there hand-in-hand over the cyvasse board in silence, each dwelling in their own ghostly thoughts. Sansa didn’t know what Arya was remembering—the Riverlands, perhaps, or the spectre of their mother, Lady Stoneheart, and how Arya had given her the gift of death. Sansa was remembering a Kingsguard who had swung their mailed fists into her stomach, her chest; she was remembering King Joffrey torturing animals before her very eyes; she was remembering Petyr Baelish demanding kisses (and then more) from her unwilling lips.

In all of those instances she had longed for Winterfell, for home. Now she had it, and it was enough—more than enough, despite the burnt roof and crumbling wall plaster, the dead garden and broken bookcases. Here, she felt closer to her mother and her father. Here, she felt alive.

“I’m so glad I found you again,” blurted out Arya suddenly, and it was so unlike her that Sansa was startled into a genuine smile.

“So am I,” said Sansa, squeezing her little sister’s hand, “So am I.”

 

*

 

 _Winter is coming._ These were their words—the only House words that were not proclamations of pride or declarations of strength. No, the Stark words were a warning—and a threat.

When she’d been young and foolish, stupid enough to believe anything that anyone told her, Sansa had found her family’s words silly and inane. Of course winter was coming. Of course it would be hard. Everyone knew these things. She hadn’t grasped it, yet; the meaning beneath the words, the bloodied weight of them on her brow.

Her father had spoken often of the pack, but Sansa had not been overly interested. Why would she be? She was perfectly safe, and did not need to be protected. It was only after the Kingsguard beat her bloody that she yearned for a protector, a savior, a _friend_. And when the news of the deaths of her lady mother and Robb had come, delivered to her by a soft-spoken Tyrion…

She saw it all, living in King’s Landing, a lone wolf amongst sheep and lions. And it was then that her father’s words became so glaringly profound.

_When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives._

_I understand now,_ she’d wanted to scream, in those early days. _I see it now; it makes sense, I understand. Now please send someone to save me. Please send me a knight to bring me home._

But no knight came.

Sansa had spent years as the lone wolf, and now, surrounded by her siblings, each day seemed dreamlike, hazy. The ache of loneliness disappated into nothingness. She played games with Bran and Arya; she discussed books with Jon; she and Rickon would go for rides in the curving green forest. And during this time, Winterfell was being rebuilt, the towers rising tall again, the walls repainted, the foundations replaced.

Sansa grew a garden on the castle grounds, picked fruit that hung heavy from the trees. She cleaned the inner vestibule until it shone and directed the building projects as best she could. At night she would gather with her siblings and talk of everything and nothing, until they were almost too weary to rise for bed. Though she knew by now that she knew very little, she did know this: she loved them, absolutely and completely, and would not abandon them no matter how far she went. That much, at least, she’d figured out.

That much, she knew, was true.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

  



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